


Interlocking Fingers

by RogueVigilante



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Jon Doesn't Like To Be Touched Without Permission, M/M, Martin Blackwood Needs a Hug, No Angst, Nothing bad happens here, just a conversation, minor warning for being inside post-lonely Martin's head, set between 159 and 160, sometimes he just wants to fade away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:22:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28210848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RogueVigilante/pseuds/RogueVigilante
Summary: All he knew was there was a small bright spot, a fraction of warmth that seemed to hold his hand tight and chases away the fog. A promise of something better. So, he holds on tight, never wanting to let go.And Jon holds tightly back.Slowly coming back from the Lonely, Martin finds himself savouring Jon's touch, the steady hand within his own. However, a surprise morning cuddle reveals something Martin didn't realise about Jon.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 14
Kudos: 157





	Interlocking Fingers

**Author's Note:**

> So this came about because I'm currently planning a different fic, and I wanted to include this concept in that fic. Except there wasn't any proper space for it. So I'm writing it out as it's own mini-fic. Enjoy.
> 
> If you liked it, please consider leaving comments or kudos. They fuel me to keep writing.

The Lonely isn’t cold. It isn’t warm either, but rather a low chill that seems to disappear the moment it touches skin. It’s that perfect coolness, one where a simple knitted sweater isn’t necessary, but also doesn’t make everything too warm either. Instead, everything just right, a rightness that lets you forget yourself and fade away into the thick sea fog. Is it sea fog, or is that just Peter Lucas worming his way into Martin’s mind and suggesting things that are nothing more than an idea far more comforting than its actual reality? It doesn’t matter though, what matters is the slow beckoning call from the ideal coolness of that place. A place where Martin would never have to worry about anything again, a place where nobody would have to be worried about him again. A place where he could just leave everything behind.

Closing his eyes, Martin can imagine it. Give in to that call and fade away. What stops him though is the hand grasping his own, warm and alive, an anchor in this endless fog. Jon. Jon who apparently loves him in the same way that Martin once did, how long ago was it now? How long had it been since Jon and the others had left for the House of Wax? How long had it been between now and the time before every feeling seemed to just fade away into the quiet background of his mind, leaving him with what? Leaving him empty. Perhaps it would be easier to just fade away. Except Martin doesn’t, instead he holds onto that bright spot in his hand and the promise of someplace warm. Someplace beyond the fog. Someplace with love.

It’s too loud. The world beyond the fog is too loud, too messy, too full of something that Martin can’t place. Emotions of the people around him are jumbling with things Martin has now forgotten, screaming at him to care. Their voices echo and pull at him, scrabbling to be let in. But he can’t. He doesn’t want to. Despite not being under the oppressive gaze of Peter Lucas, the fog is still there, still smothering the parts that Martin would have once called himself. Or was it always there, and the Martin they thought they all knew was nothing more than a rickety house build on foundations. A house that was consumed the minute it didn’t need to be there anymore? He didn’t know. All he knew was there was a small bright spot, a fraction of warmth that seemed to hold his hand tight and chases away the fog. A promise of something better. So, he holds on tight, never wanting to let go.

And Jon holds tightly back.

Slowly, Martin begins to find himself coming back. Finds himself emerging from beneath that heavy blanket of calm nothingness, finding the parts of himself that he lost to the lies and to the Lonely. He still misses the fog, misses the quiet, misses the coolness. Misses it enough that some days he just begins to fall back into it. Letting Martin Blackwood disappear from the world. Again.

Jon said he never Looked, and Martin believes him, but that still didn’t stop him from almost always knowing when Martin was drifting. When the fog returns, that hand was there, always holding tightly, never letting go. Together they’d sit, sometimes Jon attempting to make tea, sometimes collapsing together with a blanket or an old DVD that they’d managed to scrounge from Daisy’s meagre collection. Jon refused to listen to the box set of old Archer episodes they’d also found with that collection. Sometimes they’d talk, and other times Martin would just fall asleep in the warmth and the knowledge that he was loved. Just knowing Jon was there, their hands interlocking, was enough.

Almost lazily, the days passed, both good and bad coming and going in a random jumble. Although as time began to progress, the number bad days began to fade, and more often than not, Martin found himself waking up with a clearer mind. The quiet of Scotland and the arms of Jon helped the most. There’s no noise out here, no people clamouring for him to come back any quicker than he wants to. He can sit with a mug of Jon’s mediocre tea, read a cheap paperback from the local store, and run his fingers through Jon’s hair when he collapses onto Martin with a bright smile. Like he can’t believe his luck. Martin can’t believe it either.

* * *

The bed’s warm when Martin awakes, Scottish sun glimmering with a weak morning light through the open blinds. Blinking the heaviness of sleep from his eyes, a small sound escapes Martin’s lips as he rolls over, arm sweeping to find Jon. He’s not there, an empty indent and a crumpled blanket filling the space where he usually lies. Groaning slightly to himself, Martin wonders if he should leave the warm comfort of the bed to find Jon. Or if he should just lie there, perhaps drifting slowly back to sleep. The side clamouring for him to get up wins, mostly after it makes the solid argument that if he stays in bed, it might be a while before he gets up. Despite there being little that needed to be done in their cottage, snuggling on the couch with the next episode of Death in Paradise and a cup of tea seemed like an appealing morning.

Sliding into his slippers to avoid the cold wooden floor, Martin shuffles tiredly from the bedroom. The rest of the house is bright, windows open to let the early morning light shine through, and almost cold. The fire crackling in the living room does a little to stave off the chill, although Martin still wonders if he should retreat back to the warmth of the bed. Even if it is just to grab the thick quilt to wrap around his shoulders before trundling back into the living room. Or even to grab a jumper. There’s a clatter from the kitchen, the sound of plates hitting countertops and cutlery falling onto the floor. Jon. A suitable water bottle of warmth. Smiling, Martin shuffles in the direction of the kitchen.

Jon’s back to him, loose hair falling over one of Martin’s thick sweaters, as he hunts through the fridge for the jam. There’s a brief moment of familiar static that fills Martin’s ears before Jon gives a successful “got you” noise as he grabs the small pot of jam from behind several larger jars. Martin smiles, taking a moment to lean against the doorframe. God knows how much he loves the man that is currently just staring at the toaster, waiting for it to finish as if the Beholding could help in any way with that. Martin could have leaned there for far longer, if not for the cold of the morning reminding him why he shuffled towards the kitchen in the first place. Walking into the kitchen, Martin throws his arms around Jon from behind, locking him in a tight hug with a slight sway to it. He’s deliciously warm.

“Morning,” he mumbles in Jon’s ear as he does this.

Jon freezes, his body going tight and still as Martin hugs him from behind. Jon’s breath hitches with a sharp but shallow intake as he stands there, straight, still, and unmoving. Waiting for something. Martin can feel it, the slight tremor to his body, the unnatural stillness, the absolute panic. Then in an instant, it’s all gone again, releasing out in a single tidal wave. Jon’s shoulders slump backwards into Martin as he relaxes, the tension in his reaction melting away. His breath comes out in a deep and almost relieved sigh, although it takes several breaths to return to what could be described as an almost normal breathing pattern. Jon’s arms wrap around his own stomach, hands finding Martin’s arms and holding on tight. It only takes a moment, less than a second of that tense hidden panic from Jon before it disappears again, but it’s unmistakeable.

“Morning,” Jon murmurs back, leaning his head backwards into Martin’s shoulder.

His voice is trying to be calm, but there’s the slightest twinge of a shake to it as he tries desperately to hide whatever just happened. Someone who didn’t know Jon might miss it, might assume that whatever happened was just Jon being startled. But Martin knows better. For the briefest instant, Jon was panicking.

Not knowing what else to do, Martin steps backwards, sliding his arms out from around Jon’s waist. Jon turns to face Martin, confusion resting lightly on his face due to Martin’s sudden detachment from Jon. Martin wants to do nothing more than step forward and cup Jon’s face in his hands, whispering to him that everything will be okay. But he doesn’t. Not with Jon desperately trying to pretend that everything was fine just a moment ago. Not with Martin unsure exactly what just happened. Was it a bad memory? Did Martin do something wrong?

“Jon, are you alright?” Martin asks as Jon looks at him.

“Morning Martin,” Jon responds again with a quiet but dismissive tone. There’s warmth to it, a joy to seeing Martin that happens almost every morning. But mostly he’s just trying to avoid answering Martin’s question.

“Jon,” Martin says again, this time with a more concerned forcefulness. “What’s wrong?”

The toaster dings in the background, only for the pair to ignore it. Martin’s certain that Jon can see the worry and concern in Martin’s expression and question. He wants Jon to be okay, wants to help the person he desperately cares about. Jon takes a moment to answer, bright eyes not looking up at him.

“I’m fine,” Jon responds in a tone that Martin immediately knows is a lie. “Really.”

“You’re really not.”

Martin looks at Jon, suddenly aware of how small Jon looks. He’s tiny, retreating into himself and hiding under his long greying hair and darker skin covered in scars. Leaning against the kitchen benchtop with eyes glued to the floor, Jon almost fidgets with discomfort. Martin wants nothing more than to pick up Jon, to hold him tight and assure him that everything is going to be okay. But maybe this is too much, maybe this is something Martin can’t help with? Perhaps it would be better if Martin left to the sofa, waiting for Jon to be ready to talk. Although, if Jon had done that to Martin when he struggles with the Lonely, the Martin might have faded away a long time ago. Then again, the Lonely and the Eye were both similar and different. Would letting Jon have some space help, or would it only make things worse? Contemplating a decision, Martin waits in unthreatening silence, unsure what to do.

“Just…” Jon stutters, breaking his train of thought before Martin can decide what to do next. Jon pauses, stumbling over his own words, before deciding against whatever he was about to say. “It’s nothing.”

The quiet dismissiveness of those two words is not lost to Martin. It's the two words that to Martin, mean that something is absolutely wrong. There’s a worried and questioning tone to it all, like a secret he wants to talk about but doesn’t know if he should. He’s tense and scared about his next words, unsure if he even wans to say anything. Something’s wrong, and that something involves Martin, he’s sure of it.

“Jon, talk to me,” Martin says, concerned, trying to convey to Jon that whatever he's worried about will be okay. “What’s wrong?”

The fragility of a new relationship, combined with everything that they’ve gone through, means that it could be anything. Especially since the last several months had them both separated by a thick fog and several tape recorders. Has Martin overstepped? Done something that Jon’s not comfortable with without him realising what he’s done?

“It’s just that…” Jon tries again, once again interrupting Martin’s spiralling train of though. He stutters, the sentence dying once again. Jon takes a deep breath before looking at Martin, immensely worried. “I… Um… I don’t really like being touched.”

Martin blanks, his mind whirring both too fast and too slow, unable to think of anything in response. The whole concept of Jon not wanting to be touched making instant sense. He’d been kidnapped, hurt, and scared from so many creatures. Monsters looking to leave their marks upon him. Martin can see the scar on his throat, the burn on his hand, the bites of the worms. He knows of mess across his ribs, the slice on his other palm. And then there’s all those times where marks were never left. The numerous kidnappings. So, when he jumped up on Jon from behind, no-wonder Jon panicked. He should have known, should have realised, should have connected that motion to Breekon and Hope. Plus, there was the Circus. After returning from being held by them for a month, Jon had never really spoken of exactly what happened, instead falling into a silence that indicated he didn’t want to talk about it whenever he was asked. Given their obsession with skin though, it was unlikely to have been anything good. Why didn't Martin realise this before? He should have realised this already.

Suddenly, Martin’s mind falls back to the last few weeks as he realises something else. It falls back to all those days in the fog, where there was nothing to Martin except a warm spot, a hand holding his. Keeping him grounded and from fading away into the fog. Jon. Did he do that for Martin, keep him here at the cost of his own discomfort? All those mornings waking up in Jon’s arms, those lazy afternoons on the couch together, those evenings around a crackling fire and under a blanket. The walks past the cows with quiet chatter and interlocked fingers. Did Jon put aside his own trauma, his own feelings, just to help Martin? Guilt crashes down onto him. Jon shouldn’t have done that, shouldn’t keep putting himself and his own feelings secondary just for someone else. Not for anyone. Not for Martin.

“That came out wrong…” Jon quickly stammers, as if he’s suddenly realised exactly what Martin’s thinking. Even without Looking, he probably has. “I’m sorry. I really like…”

His voice into silence again, figuring out the words. They’re laced with a panic that makes Martin feel incredibly guilty. Still, the implication is there in the silence. Jon likes the hugs, the hand holding, the kisses, and the blanket. He likes those lazy mornings and crappy movies together. It's not the touch of Martin that Jon doesn't like, but rather something else about it. Hearing this brings a wave of relief crashing through Martin, although he still feels incredibly guilty about the whole situation. Honestly, Martin didn’t know what would happen to him if he knew that every handhold, every hug, was a discomfort to Jon. Especially when he occasionally desperately needed it. Honestly, he’d probably end up fading away.

Jon takes a deep breath, giving himself a moment to recompile. To find the words he’s looking for. Martin gives him the time he needs.

“I don’t really like being touched without warning,” he eventually confesses with a shaky voice. “With everything that’s happened I…”

“Jon,” Martin interrupts, voice steady and full of love. “I understand. And I’m sorry.”

Martin does. For everything Jon’s went through, everything Martin’s known that he went through, a lot of it was not his choice. He’s been injured and manhandled without any control about his own life. He wears the scars of their touch, so familiar now that it’s almost strange to imagine the Jon that worked in Research. It also makes a lot of sense that this is something that Jon wants to directly control in his own life, especially now that he can. Something that could bring back up those small but traumatic memories. Martin should have known, should have guessed. Should have asked. And that hug, that would have directly overstepped that comfort level, especially since Jon probably had no idea Martin was there due to the slippers. He'd probably instantly assumed he was being kidnapped again.

“For what?” Jon asks, before realising that Martin’s talking about. “It’s no big deal. You didn’t know and I didn’t say anything and…”

“Jon. Stop,” Martin interrupts, looking intently at Jon and hoping the words get though. “I’m really sorry, and I shouldn’t have sneaked up on you like that.”

“It’s really fine. I’m fine.”

As he says this, it’s accompanied by a smile and the slight raising of his arms. The universal hand signal for hug. Smiling, Martin accepts, falling into his boyfriend’s arms and once again embracing him. Although this time there’s no jumpiness, no tension. Instead, Jon seems to collapse into him like a cat in a patch of warm sunlight, the conversation evidently having been something that had desperately worried him for a long time. Now that it's over, that weight has been lifted from Jon's mind. He doesn’t need to see Jon’s face, not that he can with it buried in his pyjama top, to know that Jon’s smiling.

“You sure?” Martin asks one last time, whispering gently into Jon’s ear.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

The pair hold each other like this for a while, Martin doesn’t know how long. It could have only been a few seconds, or it could have been hours. Instead, he’s savouring Jon’s warmth, savouring this moment together. All that matters is them, together in their small kitchen in Scotland. And honesty, Martin’s happy that this is still something he can enjoy, something that they can both share. If Jon had been completely against being touched, well… Martin doesn’t want to even think about it. Luckily, he never needs to think about it.

Eventually, Jon slowly and reluctantly detaches himself, looking up with a grateful smile. Martin desperately wants to run his hands through Jon’s hair, but he doesn’t. Jon turns back to his now cold toast, abandoned, and slightly overcooked in the toaster. Giving an exasperated chuckle, Jon moves to slice himself another loaf of bread. The chill of the house decides that this is the moment to return. Or perhaps it was because Martin’s personal hot water bottle has just decided to make himself another slice of toast. However, Martin decides to make himself, and Jon, a cup of tea instead of asking Jon for another cuddle. Not only is that more productive, but it also wouldn’t subject the second poor slice of bread to the same fate as the first. Filling the kettle, he leans against the counter and looks at Jon.

“So,” Martin asks after a moment, voicing a thought that had suddenly emerged. “If I want to give you a hug or trap you on the couch?”

Jon smiles, looking away from the toast to look at Martin.

“Just let me know beforehand,” he says, resting against the kitchen bench to look at Martin. “Or let me initiate.”

His hand rests just a few centimetres away from Jon’s, almost touching like that famous painting of God and Man. It’s the hand that held Martin’s own all those times he drifted into the nothingness of the fog. He knows its warmth, its solid presence. The way that the burn scars ridge and line the palm and back in the shape of Jude Perry’s own handprint. He can imagine that hand in his own, lacing his own fingers between Jon’s with a delicate touch. A sign that he's here and it's going to be all right. Like lightning, Martin has an idea. One he wants to check with Jon about first.

“Like this?” Martin asks, slowly moving his hand towards Jon’s, making the movement deliberate and highly visible. “If this is okay with you?”

As he asks this, Martin wraps his hand around Jon’s, holding it tight. The same way that Jon holds his sometimes. There’s a question in the handhold, one Martin hopes Jon understands. He’s asking if this can be their sign, Martin’s way of asking if he can touch Jon. Whether it be a hug, a lean, or just to collapse on him when he’s trying to read that awful cheap paperback the man at the general store recommended. Jon’s hand rotates, pushing Martin’s own hand upwards until they’re facing each other, a perfect mirror with palms touching. Jon laces his fingers with Martin’s, and Martin returns the gesture with a gentle squeeze. Looking into his eyes, Martin knows instantly that Jon understands and accepts. That he very much likes the idea. That if Martin wants to hold Jon, then all he has to do is brush his fingers against Jon’s own, and if Jon grabs back then he’s alright with Martin touching him.

“This will do nicely,” Jon smiles back, not really needing to vocalise the conformation, but still doing it anyway. Still holding Martin’s hand, he gestures with the other one. “Come here.”

Instead of going in for a second hug, Martin presses his forehead against Jon’s. As he does this, Martin's hand moves to run through the tangled mess that is Jon’s hair. In the background, the toaster dings, forgotten by the two men in the room and subjected to the same fate as its predecessor. Martin can feel Jon's other hand now resting on his cheek, running across it in a small motion. It's a wonderful feeling. Yet, in the intimacy of this moment, Martin can still feel Jon’s hand, a firm presence in his own. It’s warm.

“And Martin," Jon murmurs softly. "Thank you.”

**Author's Note:**

> P.S. Jon's not going to waste the toast. He was planning on giving the cold piece to Martin. Now they both get cold toast :)


End file.
